


kiss me good night, not goodbye

by Folle



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Being Walked In On, Character Death, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, I really can't fuckin' think of any tags so uuhhhhhhhhh, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, Pining, Protectiveness, Self-Depreication, Sharing a Bed, if flagellation can be considered self harm, not beta we die like mne, so far :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folle/pseuds/Folle
Summary: 5 times the Heir and Leper almost kiss, and the one time do
Relationships: Heir/Leper (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks a million to the hornye darkest dungeones discord server for helping me come up with ideas for this, they're all lovely and amazing <3
> 
> Rating will go up as new chapters are released.

1.

Bright and sunny days like these are rare in the hamlet, from what Mortimer could recall. His summers spent running around his uncle’s estate were usually overcast and muggy, with the occasional downpour. 

It’s going to rain later tonight if the towering cotton clouds told him anything. But it’s worth it for the warmth of the Light on his skin, and the breeze ruffling the hair on his arms. He isn’t the only member of their ragtag little gang that was dressed down while they could.

Reynauld is out of that dreaded suit of armor for once, Dismas shed his overcoat and rolled up his sleeves as well, and Fresle… Well, he had removed his pieces of armor to reveal a bandage covered body and that was enough to push Mortimer into action.

He can see the outline of his thick muscles, covered by a moderate layer of fat. Despite having once been a prince, Fresle is entirely built for strength, not for show. But he is trim enough to not be as bulky as Guyot. 

A perfect sight that makes Mortimer’s mouth water. He could only imagine what it would be to feel those thick, corded arms around him. Or those thick, meaty thighs between his. Among other things.

But in comparison, Mortimer can’t help but feel inferior. He’s lean and wiry, as one might expect from an owner of a fishing fleet. He kept in shape, for posterity’s sake, and little else. But he isn’t weak, no matter what the general populace might think.

And to add insult to injury, Fresle towers over him. Most men do, but it hurt more with Fresle.

And so, he jogs up to Dismas and snatches the crate of food he was struggling to haul from the market to their cart. It’s certainly heavy, but nothing Mortimer couldn’t handle. “Don’t worry yourself with the supplies Dismas, I can handle it. Why don’t you go enjoy this lovely weather before we head out?”

Dismas gives him one of Those Looks. The ones that Mortimer is still parsing out. He thinks this is the one that meant he is welcome to dig his own grave. Dismas shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, before jogging up to Reynauld, who is stretching in the square.

Good Lord, Mortimer is glad he hadn’t a fond liking for Reynauld like he does Fresle, if he already felt  _ this _ inferior with the leper.

Speaking of the good man, he is accounting for what supplies were already in the cart as is. Even though the mask obscured his face, there is a certain lightness to Fresle’s movements that made something in Mortimer’s chest tickle.

Mortimer bounds up to the man, grin spread on his face. “Good morning, Fresle. I trust that you slept well?” It is only the man’s second week here, after all. There were a fair few “heroes” who fled upon their first night.

For a moment, Fresle doesn’t say anything, merely staring up at the clouds. “This weather brings only good tidings. The mild day invigorates us, and the cloud’s pillars promise of rain will refresh our spirits.”

Sometimes Mortimer doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to respond to Fresle’s quips. “Hopefully it won’t be too viscous of a torrent.”

“Yes, that would rather  _ dampen  _ our spirits, would it not?”

It caught him off guard, but when Mortimer’s mind caught up with himself, he barked a laugh. “I believe so.” Mortimer thought he saw Fresle smile, but it must have been a trick of the sun gleaming off his golden mask. When Fresle moves to take the crate out of Mortimer’s hands, he moves it out of the way. “Don’t worry, I’m taking care of loading the supplies today.”

He hauls the crate up onto the back of the cart with ease. It would have been a fool’s errand to launch himself up as well, and he would likely fall anyway. Mortimer scales the wheel instead and drags the crate into place. 

It is a process, doing everything on his own, but Mortimer can only hope that Fresle is impressed by his strength. He may be a small, noble nobody, but damn the Light if he is going to let Fresle think of him like that!

The firewood is more of a hassle, simply because of its size. Mortimer opts to lay it on the ground while he hoists it up from on the cart, and tossing it into the back. The first bundle goes fine, and Mortimer feels the flush of satisfaction. He is positive it looked as smooth as it felt. 

But, well, the second bundle… There are things Mortimer can’t have possibly accounted for. Such as the bindings on the bundle snapping while he was throwing it. His balance is completely thrown, and Mortimer finds himself stumbling to regain it again.

His face and torso were going to take a beating, especially seeing as some of the logs had rolled onto the ground while he stumbled and desperately tried to maintain his balance. And Fresle would think of him a fool, overconfident and prideful. 

Maybe it wouldn’t mean much to friends, but in such a fresh relationship, it will leave certain impressions. 

Mortimer’s stomach lurches when he feels the rush of falling, and really, he tries to brace himself, but there was little he could do when a pair of arms wrapped around his chest.

Landing on top of Fresle still hurts. Especially when Mortimer’s teeth smash against his mask. He didn’t notice the pain all too much, as he is more concerned with how close his lips were to Fresle’s own.

All it would take is moving his face forward. Things like leprosy never bothered Mortimer much. So the scarred lips were more of a promise than a deterrent. Luring him forward like a siren. Perhaps he could pass it off as an accident, or perhaps…

Well, it’s foolish to dream of such things.

The arms around him feel divine. It has been such a long time since anyone had touched him a manner more intimate than a hand on the shoulder or slap to the back. Both intentionally or accidentally. 

But Mortimer finds that in their current position, his arms trapped between their chests, he can do little to extract himself. Regardless, Fresle keeps a tight grip. His arms are heavy and solid and warm, and Mortimer cannot wiggle out even if he wanted to. 

And the mere thought of Fresle pinning him down and having his way with him makes something smolder deep in his get. 

Mortimer suddenly finds his mouth quite dry, and his face hot.

The prospect his daydreams brought forward clouds his mind. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the blood spilling down onto Fresle. That is until the man himself gently sets Mortimer aside, and pulls a tooth from his mouth. However, Fresle’s teeth seemed whole and fine.

After running a tongue over his own, Mortimer finds a gummy, bloody mess instead of a right lateral incisor. Once two and two are put together, Mortimer’s face burns scarlet, and he covers his mouth. He’s expecting some sound of mortification to come from him, maybe a gasp, but all Mortimer can do was laugh.

“Fresle, it seems you have stolen something from me,” Mortimer says between and during his fit. 

The tooth seems macabre nestled in his bandaged palm, pearly and dotted with blood and flesh. A morbid sight indeed, and yet it seemed beautiful to Mortimer. He hasn’t an idea what expression was on Fresle’s face, but he hopes it was one of endearment.

“Less stolen, more generously gifted.” Finally, his stoicism fractures into a warm smile. “I can return it if you’d like.”

Mortimer gathers and pulls himself to his feet. “Entirely unnecessary, you can just, I don’t know, toss it in the grass. Or give it to the apothecary, I’m certain the nurse will have  _ some  _ use for it there.” He holds his breath and his hand out.

Fresle looks at it for a moment, and in those few seconds, Mortimer’s heart feels like it’s going to burst. But Fresle takes his hand - they’re so large and  _ warm _ , even though the bandages - and lets Mortimer haul him up. There’s a huff of surprise, as if Mortimer didn’t load up the cart almost entirely by himself.

“Yes, of course.” Fresle curls his hand around the tooth like it’s a small bird in his palm.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I ever linked it [but here is a playlist that I made for my other fic that I listen to while writing this one.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4I78YbRFMUYzrN26ZeNuMB)
> 
> Though [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNLtvAcQMIk) in particular vibes strongly with this chapter, so have fun!

2.

The dampness of the cove was really  _ terrible  _ for Fresle’s bandages.

Mortimer knows the man isn’t one to complain about such trivial things, despite how they must be chaffing terribly. His own trousers already were, after crawling through what was probably this entire sector of the cove.

If it weren’t for the detailed maps the caretaker provided, there wouldn’t have been any chance Mortimer could have found where the drowned crew was located. He would need to have a word or two with the caretaker on how he knew so much, but that was a conversation Mortimer would rather avoid.

There was only one room left, and Mortimer was certain it was where the crew is. The rest of their party isn’t exactly doing so well. Despite their pleas to stop, he turns them around to the room they came from and sets up the campfire for the night.

It’s odd, how they could go into battle against monsters beyond what their nightmares can conjure, but the concept of backtracking makes their skin crawl.

It isn’t as if they hadn’t just walked down that very passageway.

Even Fresle, beautiful, unshakable Fresle, bristles and raises his proverbial hackles.

Everyone gathers around, trying to get feeling back in their toes and fingers. Reynauld prepares the rations for dinner, Reibou recites her prayers, and Bachiler tries in vain to dry out her crossbow. Mortimer prays that she does because they can’t afford for it to jam again.

Fresle is, as usual, hunched over himself and staring into the flames. He fiddles with his mask for a moment, before resigning and taking it off. 

And instantly, Mortimer is taken.

It’s not the first time Fresle has removed his mask around him, but each moment is precious to Mortimer. He ducks his head and uses his head covering well to hide his disfigurement.

Mortimer reaches out and lays his fingers on Fresle’s forearm, confirming how soaked the material has become. “Fresle, that cannot be comfortable. Would you like to remove your bandages for the night and let them dry by the fire?”

An innocuous enough of a question, seemingly fueled by worry. But Mortimer is ashamed to acknowledge his ulterior motives.

The sores and scarred and mottled skin didn’t bother the heir. He felt neither attracted to nor repulsed by them, but rather what lay underneath. 

The light of the fire gleans off of Fresle’s eyes, which Mortimer barely catches before they are once again hidden by shadows. Something crawling around in his guts pulls desperately, wanting to see what they hold. 

“It’s not of import at the moment, as I feel little more than the cold. That aside, I would rather wait until we have returned to the safety of the hamlet. Even though the bandages offer no protection from attacks I still feel…” Fresle curls in further on himself. “Exposed.”

Though Mortimer cannot see if Fresle is looking at him, he offers a pat and a squeeze on the arm. “I know the feeling.” He chews on his lip and looks among the others before shuffling closer on his knees. “At least take up a spot closer to the fire so they can dry some. The sensation may not bother you, but it would be best not to irritate or reopen any sores more than we have.”

Something akin to a smile ghosts across Fresle’s lips. “It is too late for that, but I would rather you to take up a closer position. If we were to be attacked in the night, I shall be able to protect you.”

However, Mortimer can only scrounge up a frown. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like? To walk freely without your bandages on?”

Fresle glances to the fire, smile gone. “The last was the night before I was… Exiled is the word to use, but I left of my own accord. I would sneak out of my room at night to sit among the dogwood trees in the courtyard. Grass damp with dew that glimmer like a lake in the moonlight, a warm breeze that carries petals and the scent of damp earth after a brisk summer shower, and cool, smooth stone underhand. It was more freeing than the shattering of any shackles.”

“I cannot offer you any of that, but you’re welcome to walk without bandages in my abode.”

“Is that so?” The quirk of an eyebrow can almost be heard in his voice.

“I- I mean,” Mortimer’s face quickly heats up and he draws his lips into a thin line. “If you’re partial to the idea. I’ve never been uncomfortable around those with leprosy. It is truly a shame that it is not widely understood that it is significantly difficult to contract the condition from someone who already has it. You’re more in danger sitting outside than you would be sitting next to a leper, o-or sharing a cup of tea with one-” 

Gratefully, Fresle interrupts Mortimer’s ramblings. “Is this your way of saying you would like to have tea sometime?”

A thousand different excuses rush forward as Mortimer opens his mouth, before suddenly slamming close. “Yes. I would very much like that.”

Fresle closes a hand around one of Mortimer’s own, another smile gracing his face. “As would I.” He lightly pushes Mortimer down onto his bedroll, always closest to the fire. “Now sleep, there is a long battle ahead of us.”

The heat rolling off the fire is a good enough excuse to mask his reddening cheeks, as Fresle continues to hover over him. His eyes become lidded, and a crooked grin forms. “That’s my line.” Mortimer waits until Fresle lowers himself down onto his own bedroll, before turning to face him. “Sleep well,” he whispers.

#

As will all the horrors that his uncle left for him to clean up, the drowned crew is a proverbial nightmare to deal with. Or, perhaps, an actual one. The ghastly visage of the half-rotted and turgid crew must have been a cruel invention of his mind.

But Mortimer thinks back on his uncle. All of the scribbled scraps of papers he found tucked into the cracks of the statue or passed to him by the unstable caretaker. The promise of insidious tales yet to be told, of further misdeeds yet to come to light.

The note about a hidden jetty and illicit goods was more than enough to give him an idea of their fate, but this recent one about “alternative payments” further cemented what he already knew. Once Mortimer would face them down for the final time, as these abominations always seemed to come back, he knows he will discover he has been right all along.

It sickens Mortimer that he once idolized his uncle, wanted to be like him.

As the crew vanishes from their vision with a final shot and witty line from Bachiler, the anxiety that had been gnawing at Mortimer’s inside, as it does with every fight, lessens. Bachiler’s breath hitches with each intake and clutches at her side, Riebou is on the brink of falling apart, Reynauld is battered but, thanks to Riebou, has avoided any close brushes to death, and Fresle-

Is sprawled on his back, chest plate not moving.

Mortimer doesn’t care if the damp ground of the cove tears up his trousers and knees as he skids to Fresle’s side. His breath is caught in his throat, and he flutters his hands across his form.

The dribble of water from his mouth was sign enough.

“The anchorman’s curse, it wasn’t an illusion!” Mortimer opens Fresle’s mouth and tips his head to the side. A pitiful amount of water leaks out, but he still doesn’t take in any air. “Riebou, what do I do?”

She freezes in place, but only for a moment. Soon she tosses her tome and mace to the side and drops to her knees. Riebou briefly fumbles with the fastenings of Fresle’s armor, but the leather is stiff and swollen, and her fingers merely slip. She tries straightening her arms and pushing down on Fresle’s chest, but there’s almost no give. 

“Chest compressions aren’t going to work like this, and it would take too long to get his chest piece off.” Riebou chews on her bottom lip and grabs at her hood. “How else, how else…” she mutters under her breath.

“He doesn’t have much time,” Reynauld adds, leaning heavily against his sword. “Listen, there’s an old army trick you can use to jumpstart his lungs again, but you won’t like it.”

Mortimer punches the ground, making his knuckles bleed. “I don’t care, just tell me what to do!”

Understanding the gravity, Reynauld nods. “You’ll need to remove his mask for his.”

There’s a loud clang when it’s thrown without caution, and Bachiler sighs and retrieves it.

“Pinch his nose, er, well cover the cavity, tilt his chin back- yes like that,” Reynauld takes in a long breath. “This is the part you’re not going to like. Take in a deep breath, and lock your lips with his, and blow the air into his mouth.”

Mortimer jerks his hands away from Fresle. “I can’t do that,” he shouts, though it quickly devolves into a whisper. 

“You have to, he’ll die otherwise!”

“You do it then!”

“Stop wasting time!” It’s the first time Reynauld has become short with him. “I don’t care if you think you’ll catch the plague. This man is your soldier, a good one, and by the Light am I going to let you waste his life!”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what, is it because he’s a man? Get over yourself!”

“No-”

Bachiler cocks her cross. “Stop it, the both of you! Mortimer, you bloody well get on with it or I’ll make you’ll be walking with a limp for the rest of your Light damned life!”

Both Riebou and Reynauld shoot her dirty looks, but both hold their tongues and turn their attention back on Mortimer.

Hesitantly, he puts his hands and Fresle’s head back into position. Mortimer leans his face down slowly. A face like Fresle’s should turn him away, but it only excites him more. This is him, the real, unguarded him. His lips are just barely hovering over Fresle’s when he sucks in a shuddering breath. And he moves to press his lips to those chapped ones that have haunted his dreams and every waking thought.

He pauses to close his eyes, and-

Suddenly Fresle coughs and turns his head to the side to let out a torrent of water trapped in his lungs and stomach.

Mortimer jerks away, eyes wide and nearly unbelieving. The moment Fresle calms down, Mortimer pulls him into a crushing hug. He can barely get his arms around his shoulders. He shoves his face into Fresle’s mantle, sucking in the scent of sweat, linen, lye, and all sorts of medicinal herbs. 

His breaths are uncertain and shaky, just as Fresle’s are. But Mortimer is uncertain if the sound coming from him is sobs or laughter. “Don’t you ever do that again!” he whispers.

Fresle, uncertain, rests his hands on the small of Mortimer’s back. “I will try my best not to,” is the most he can manage, voice more hoarse than usual.

Despite the daggers they were glaring only moments earlier, everyone else in their party has relaxed. They seemingly have forgotten Mortimer’s hesitation in their relief.

Reynauld takes charge of caring for Fresle, and the two help each other back to the entrance. Bachiler takes up the back, except to hand Fresle his mask back. Riebou, however, stays close to Mortimer’s side, an unreadable expression on her face. There are strict instructions of stretches and how Fresle should sit (head between his knees, with his mouth open) as everyone huddles into the back of the cart.

Riebou, however, deigns herself to sit upon the riding bench with Mortimer. She frequently turns back to see if the others have fallen asleep. And while they do, Fresle doesn’t. However, he has been assigned to sit in the back, with the excuse given that the bumpiness will help shake out more water. Whatever plans she has, she deems the current situation the perfect time for it. 

“Don’t think I’ll forget about what you did back there. Fresle nearly died, and because of what? You think kissing a leper is going to give you the plague?” She grips Mortimer’s arm so tight he’s certain that he’ll have bruises come morning. “If I here anymore of you treating the rest of us like this, don’t expect to see me in the barracks.”

“Then leave,” Mortimer spits, keeping his voice down. “Because I don’t really appreciate careless accusations against my character. From anyone, least of all someone who’s expenses I’m paying for. Least of all someone who has been working with me as long as  _ you _ .”

“Light help you if you don’t think very carefully about your next words,” she growls. 

“Then let me leave it at this: it’s none of your damned business.” The stare Mortimer shoots Riebou shuts her up in a hurry. Exhaustion seeps into every fraction of his being the moment he fixes his eyes on the road. “Get back in the cart, Riebou, it’s a long trip.”

“We’re not done here.”

“Unless you want to return that shiny new mace of your, then yes we are. Rank may not matter to me socially, but don’t you  _ ever  _ forget who you’re talking to. And don’t you ever forget I can just as easily replace you as I hired you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer is ANGY and TRAUMATIZED


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeeehaw




The hamlet is an ocean of fire, blazing and charred when Mortimer makes the final turn along the old road, and into view of the hamlet itself. Pillars of black smoke rise from the wreckage, people are huddled around the statue of his uncle; really the only place safe out of reach of anything flammable.

Mortimer whips the reins, despite the mule’s exhaustion. It feels as if his heart has stopped beating when the scent of smoke and burning bodies hit him.

Canounville pops up from where he had been curled amongst the treasures they were hauling back. He is still holding his lute from when he had been languidly playing it. Surely he was going to shoot off some quip about Mortimer’s frantic nature, as he oft does. 

But the flames reflect on his porcelain mask, like warm smears of paint. “Oh dear Light,” he whispers, pulling himself onto the rider’s bench. 

For a brief moment, Mortimer is jealous of those long legs of his. But as he draws closer to the hamlet, he sees people swarming in the square like flies above a corpse.

“Is there something wrong?” Herdiart asks, looking up from the coin she had been counting. “Oh, I hate being kept out of the loop, what’s happening?” She peers over the bench and gasps. “The hamlet, it is on fire!”

Dismas jerks from sleep with a snort, but Ormond is still passed out. “The hamlet is what now?”

#

Mortimer feels a faint flutter of pride when he draws close enough for him to abandon his cart, only to see it is  _ his  _ men, running and dragging people out of buildings, and rushing about with buckets of water gathered from the river and the well. 

There’s a clash in the middle of the hamlet, led by Reynauld and made up of the recruits who lurk around the carriage, against a sizable brigand force, who are trying to push further into the hamlet. 

They never stand a chance, and the others, led by a crusader Mortimer can’t name, whittle down their numbers. 

And anyone foolish enough to try and go for the peasants huddled in the square are quickly dispatched by Bachiler and that new highwayman.

Further back, by the abbey, he sees Dubose and his hound chasing down a pair of brigands with torches and bombs, but they quickly disappear around a corner. In the distance, an explosion goes off but is quickly followed by barking and screaming.

He and Dismas rush to Reynauld, who is consoling the townspeople, and ushering them further away from the fires. There is only so far they can go without bordering too close to the forests, where there is no doubt that brigands lurk.

Coughing and eyes watering, Mortimer grabs onto his sleep tunic. “What’s happening?” he demands, wiping his eyes. “Where are the others?” It’s hard to raise his voice over the cacophony of destruction and chaos.

Haute stands up from where she had been tying a bandage on some poor man’s leg nearby. “Brigands, you daft idiot! They’re led by some man named Vvulf. We’re trying to prevent the spread of fire, get everyone out that we can. Some have gone to chase the bandits out of the city before they can do more damage.”

Overwhelmed, Mortimer puts his hands on his head and desperately looks around, trying to catalog every hazy figure he can make out in the crowd. 

Haute sighs, and goes back to tending to her patient. “Fresle’s already gone. He and some of the others were chasing off bandits, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of  _ any  _ of them since.”

Everything goes silent. The fires, the yelling, his breathing, his own heart beating. Of course he would. Ever so wonderful Fresle. It’s so typical of him that it  _ hurts _ . Mortimer clutches his chest and wonders why it feels so constricted. Why the back of his throat hurts and why his eyes are burning worse than the stinging of the smoke.

Dismas groans “There’s no time for this!” grabs He grabs Mortimer’s wrists and holds them tight. “You can worry all you want when this is over, but for right now, you need to get a grip, grab your men, and go kill this sunova’ bitch.”

For as much as the man liked to mope around, Dismas really knew how to kick someone in the pants. 

Mortimer takes in a few breaths and pulls his hands free. “Reynauld, get some armor on, Dismas, Aungier, Bachiler, you’re with me!” Mortimer’s face darkens in a way Dismas has never seen, and quite frankly left him uneasy. “Let’s go show Vvulf that you don’t mess with the hamlet.”

#

Thankfully, most of the fires are still out when they return, Vvulf blood covering their clothes, and trophy in hand. The night is silent once more with the knowledge that the brigands knew that the hamlet isn’t a pushover.

Neither Aungier nor Dismas, can look Mortimer in the eyes. As soon as they reach the boundaries of the town, they skitter off to the smoldering remains of the bunks.

“I can…” Reynauld starts, flipping the faceplate of his helmet up. He looks into Mortimer’s eyes for a good long while, searching for something. Whatever it is he was looking for, he doesn’t find it, and hides his face away once more. “I’ll go on ahead to the abbey, if you’ll be needing me.”

He receives no response from Mortimer and leaves him behind to trudge along to the abbey as well. Reynauld makes sure to pick up his pace and leave Mortimer far behind.

With each step, Mortimer’s legs get weaker and weaker. It’s normally a chore to go all the way up the hill, but like this it is nearly impossible. But Mortimer pushes himself, until every muscle and every bone and himself are crying. He grits his teeth, and barely manages to make it to the rows of graves on the abbey’s front lawn before he collapses.

The weight is all too much to bear, so he lets it go. Lets it all clatter to the ground, and ignores the tear rolling down his cheeks and dripping soot onto Bachiler’s ashen face.

Her blood is all over his clothes, nearly soaking them. The entire walk back, Mortimer had been going over everything he could have done. If he should have bandaged her up, if he shouldn’t have asked her to come along at  _ all _ . If he shouldn’t have gone after Vvulf at all and let the hamlet burn. But at every point, every turn, he cannot think of any better way to have gone about the task.

Dismas tried to rationalize it as bad luck, and had received a backhanded slap for his efforts. 

The implication that it was anything but Mortimer’s own fault was…! It was… 

He was never the kind of man to ever raise his hand, not even at a lady. But all that was rushing through his head was  _ “You insolate boy, you dare imply I was lying!”  _

The extra rations he had given Dismas on his way home had been his version of.  _ “You didn’t deserve that, you never did.” _

Mortimer scrubs a hand down his face and rubs at the stubble that was growing in. He would need to shave that soon. Being unkempt made his skin squirm, but in this last week, he hadn’t seemed to care as much.

“Aww, well lookie here, let us see what the cat dragged in.” Ormond hauled herself out of an open grave. She stops just above Bachiler’s body, looking at her in a way Mortimer wishes he understood. “Poor thing. I owed her a cider.” She frowns and hauls her body to the grave.

“You’re not putting her in someone else’s grave.” Mortimer’s voice is raw and seething.

“‘M not. The abbey paid me a pretty penny to dig them. They don’t expect many people to survive the night with their burns. I figure at least one of the poor sods will survive, so no need to keep all of them vacant.”

“Can you… can you please?”

Ormond nods, not needing anything further. “‘Course, love. Anything for you. Everyone’s in the abbey, if you need to talk.” She pauses for a moment and looks him up and down. “ _ Everyone _ .”

Mortimer doesn’t say anything, and pulls himself up with a tombstone. 

The normally quiet chantry seems too loud with everyone gathered on pews with anything from thin quilts to curtains that the abbey is able to supply. It’s almost like the slumber parties Mortimer used to have with his cousins up at the manor. 

Most would come and go throughout the summer, but there would be at least a week when all of them would reside there, and huddle up in the library with all of their pillows and blankets during the night. The eldest would scrounge for books to read from.

Mortimer sees a lone, stuffed rabbit sitting on a pew. It briefly reminds him of when they read from the wrong book and ended up reviving a pile of writhing flesh into a similar shape. His uncle had been so proud of them. Showed them all his vast array of occult literature, even introduced them to the strange lady he spent all day in the library with.

With a soft smile, he picked up the rabbit, delicately squishing the stuffing inside. Nothing but straw and cotton.

He knew it was hers. The others likely thought Bachiler would throw a fit if they left her stuffed toy to burn in the bunks. Mortimer caught Ormond as she was still wrapping the body up in a cloth. 

She pulled back the layers, and Mortimer tucked under the arms that were crossed over her chest. If it weren’t for the cold and muddy ground around them, he could almost trick himself into believing she was laying down for the night.

Ormond tips her hat down, covering her eyes further. She doesn’t bother to help him out of the grave.

Mortimer makes no point in trying to be silent when slipping into the abbey for the second time. He sours the mirthful mood like curdled milk. He pays no mind to the shift in mood and instead heads back to flagellation chambers. Basnage always went on about how it was good to purge one’s sins through the redemption of a flail.

Mortimer has never found relief for such a thing, but perhaps Basnage was on the right track. After all, it was his fault that Bachiler… He deserves every painful lash for letting her get killed.

He bumps into a wall of solid warmth on his way. Mortimer melts when he looks up and sees that it’s Fresle, his beautiful, wonderfully  _ alive _ Fresle. Mortimer breathes out, and cannot find the strength to breathe back in.

Unexpectedly, Fresle wraps his arms around Mortimer, holding him tight to his chest (which is thankfully sans armor) and resting his chin atop Mortimer’s mess of curls. “You’ve returned.”

“Aye,” tears well up in the corner of his eyes, and he clutches Fresle’s cloak. “As have you. You had me worried greatly.” Mortimer pulls back, craning his head up to look into Fresle’s mask. He allows himself to cusp the side of his mask with a feather light touch. “Don’t you ever run off like that again. Not when I- I…” he tries to sound stern, but it comes out broken. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers.

“Nor I you.”

“Mortimer, there you are.”

The man in question jolts back from Fresle when he hears the hoarse voice of Basnage. He places those carefully crafted walls back up and collects himself. “Yes, here I am. Am I needed for something?”

Basnage always disturbed Mortimer on nearly every level. There was only so much of the blood manic fiend he could handle, no matter how religious he may be. But perhaps in his lulls of normalcy is when he disturbed Mortimer the most. So quiet, stern, almost angry with the world and her inhabitants.

His frown is almost etched on his face, but when he comes upon the two of them, it briefly twitches. “Riebou wished to speak with you on some matter upon your return.” The gears in his head are almost audible. “I’ll tell her you’ve already gone to sleep.” As quickly as he appeared, Basnage leaves.

“I’m resting in the meditation chambers, if you would like to join me there. I find the quiet there best for sleeping.”

“Y-yes, that would be nice,” he stammers out. “I wouldn’t like to be alone tonight. I will gladly take you up on your offer.”

And there’s that smile. So slight, but it’s like a shot of whisky straight to Mortimer’s chest.

The chamber Fresle has set himself up in is rather small. More than enough for two grown men to stretch out in. Mortimer dresses down to his shirt, breeches, and stockings.

When he turns around, Fresle has removed his mask, and as it does every time, it makes Mortimer’s breath catch in his throat. 

They spread the bedroll as a thin barrier from the stone, and bundle themselves up in blankets. There is no more conversation between them, but they rarely ever need it. Mortimer stays on his side, watching as Fresle's chest slows down and evens out. 

The sight of it is soothing. If Mortimer didn’t think he would wake Fresle up, he would surely lay his head on his chest and lull himself to sleep with the sound of his heartbeat. He could likely get away with his hand.

Even through the bandages, Mortimer could feel his warmth and the solid beating of his heart. Yes, just a hand would do nicely. Slight touches rarely roused him, likely his subconscious brushing it off as a friend brushing against him. 

Mortimer wondered, at times, on what he could get away with while Fresle slept. Some were vile thoughts that he had to bite his lip at and repress until he was safely alone in his house. Others were innocuous enough.

Like would Fresle wake up from a kiss, like in the fairy tales he would read with his cousins? And often did the idea test his willpower.

Tonight, however, Mortimer doesn’t have willpower. All he has is an intense need to not be alone, and find comfort and the assurance of life.

He props himself up on his free forearm, and slowly slides his hand from Fresle’s chest, to cup his neck, and lightly hover over his cheek. Mortimer has to restrain a gasp when his fingers brush, ever so lightly, against Fresle’s skin. While he can, he soaks up the warmth and sparks like explosives spread across his skin.

He leans his face down, taking in every detail of Fresle’s face that he can in the low light of the meditation chamber. The pocks and scarred over sores, his chapped lips, and Mortimer can’t help but compare the lack of nose to that of a corpse, but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it might.

He closes his eyes and relishes in the slight waft of warm breath that spreads across his face. It’s rosemary sweet, and Mortimer lowers his face down further and further until he can feel the warmth radiating off Fresle’s skin.

The door opening isn’t loud enough to startle Fresle awake, but it sure is enough to make Mortimer jerk back. The shame and guilt rising in his gut twists like a serpent around a mouse. A candle is raised into the room, casting a dim light on the scene.

Mortimer can just about make out Reibou’s face. It’s frustratingly neutral. 

“I see. I’ll come back in the morning then.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but Mortimer can tell how terse and restrained she’s being.

Mortimer flops back onto the bedroll, covering his face. He only hopes nothing comes of this. That the Darkness doesn’t swallow him whole for the crime he was about to commit. What was he thinking? He, a man who holds what little honor he has left reverently, kissing someone who was asleep. Who could not consent. Who, even if they were awake, likely would never consent to such a thing.

Silently as he can, Mortimer dresses again and throws his coat over his arm. He pauses only to carefully cover Fresle with the other half of the bedroll and his blanket and softly shuts the door. 

The flagellant chambers, after all, were waiting. Basnage cocks his head when he sees Mortimer entering one of the chambers, but nothing more.


End file.
